


Half-brother, half-hatred

by starlightwalking



Series: Ataquenta Silmarillion [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brother Feels, Brotherly Love, Gen, Love/Hate, entirely gen!, fëanor; through gritted teeth: i love you, nolo: Sounds Fake But Okay, the fluffiest moment of their relationship tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23645503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: Fëanáro says something Ñolofinwë can't quite believe.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë & Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë
Series: Ataquenta Silmarillion [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076816
Comments: 26
Kudos: 215





	Half-brother, half-hatred

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Day Fifty-One (And Counting)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23440201) by [Drag0nst0rm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm). 



> I should be working on my B2MeM fics, but I read Drag0nst0rm's fic (linked as inspo) where Fëanor begrudgingly tells Fingolfin he loves him and I haven't been able to rest since - hopefully now that I've written this canon compliant brother fluff I can be free!
> 
> This fic incorporates the headcanon that Anairë and Fëanor used to be friends when they were studying under Rúmil :)
> 
> Set just before Fingon's birth.

Ñolofinwë stared. "You—what?" he asked, unable to believe his ears.

The look Fëanáro gave him was so disgusted and condescending that Ñolofinwë was immediately assured that he had heard wrong. But then Fëanáro snapped, "You heard me. Do not make me say it again."

"I'm—not sure I _did_ hear you," Ñolofinwë said. "Because I believe I heard you tell me that you loved me, which certainly cannot be correct."

Fëanáro made a noise in the back of his throat that in someone less dignified than the Crown Prince of the Ñoldor would be considered a _scoff_. "I am not prone to repeating myself, half-brother, especially not in this circumstance where such a statement is difficult enough to wring from my lips."

"Forgive me if I am uncertain of your affection, brother," Ñolofinwë said, biting back as much sarcasm as he could, "but your attitude does not match your words. You must understand my confusion."

"Yes, I said it!" Fëanáro gritted his teeth, a bit of that mad fire flashing in his eyes. "But only to appease our beloved father."

"You should not say things you do not mean," Ñolofinwë said, forcing lightness into his voice. He had not expected an admission of affection from Fëanáro to impact him as much as it did; he had not expected an admission of affection at _all_. He loved Fëanáro, of course, and hated him perhaps as much, but he had long since accepted that Fëanáro resented him wholly and without reservation.

To hear that was _not_ the case—

"I speak no lies," Fëanáro insisted, his back straight and proud. "I never have."

Ñolofinwë was at a loss for words. He still did not quite believe Fëanáro.

"Do not look so shocked," Fëanáro rumbled. "I would not have tutored you, tolerated you, treated you with an ounce of respect if I did not—" He grimaced. "If I did not _love_ you," he finished. "You know of my hatred for Melkor, and for the Queen. I give them no such leniency."

On another day, Ñolofinwë would have taken umbrage with comparing his mother to the Dark Vala, but he knew better than to press the point in this moment. He felt like a child again, hanging onto Fëanáro's every word, yearning for the slightest hint of affection or approval from his elder brother. And there _had_ been such moments, though they were few: when Fëanáro graced him with a rare smile when he caught his first prey on a hunt, or a brief nod when Ñolofinwë offered a sufficient rebuttal as they debated, or a possessive protectiveness when Ingwion made veiled comments about the younger prince's inferior abilities compared to Fëanáro's with the undercurrent of _This is_ my _half-brother, and I alone am allowed to mock him_.

But never, not once, had Fëanáro spelled out any positive feeling for him, and certainly not in so direct a fashion.

Fëanáro furrowed his brows. "Speak, Nolofinwë; your silence is more unsettling than any patronizing falsehood of reciprocation would be."

"You fool!" Ñolofinwë cried, unable to repress the impulse to smack Fëanáro on the shoulder. Fëanáro drew back, insulted, only for Ñolofinwë to pull him into a firm, swift embrace, burying his face in Fëanáro's shoulder. He held on only for a moment, tears budding in his eyes, and shoved his brother away just as quickly, scowling as fierce as Fëanáro had moments earlier.

Now it was Fëanáro's turn to stand bewildered, uncertain of how to react. Ñolofinwë wiped his eyes and glared, exclaiming, "I have never once lied about my love for you, Fëanáro. I adore you; how could I not? You are my elder brother—all I have ever wished for was your love!"

"A political farce," Fëanáro said weakly. "An attempt to wrest power from the rightful heir."

Ñolofinwë laughed. "Politics is a complicated game," he said, "and I admit to playing my best cards, but affirming our brotherhood is not simply a courtroom strategy! And I would be a politician unparalleled in my skill, to have been cozening up to you since birth."

"I have not the talent for such long games," Fëanáro muttered, and Ñolofinwë only snorted.

"You have a talent for everything, Curufinwë," he dismissed. "Tell me, brother: you admit our father set you up to this confession, but I am certain this is not the first time he has made such a plea. Why now, when it so clearly hurts your pride?"

Fëanáro gave him a look like he was an idiot; this, at least, was far from new. "Your son is about to be born," he said. "Atya does not want him to enter a divided house. And my quarrel is with the Queen, and to some extent her children—not with a newborn, especially when his mother is so esteemed a graduate from Rúmil's tutelage. I would hope, at least, that Anairë's child could come to love his uncle, no matter the fault of their relation."

If Ñolofinwë had been holding back his emotions before, he let them flow freely now. He smiled, touched beyond measure that Fëanáro was willing to put aside their differences for the sake of the babe. Fëanáro and Anairë had been close, once, before she wed Ñolofinwë; he knew them both too well to be ignorant that they missed that friendship.

"Thank you," he said, no longer surprised by the depth of his sincerity. "I treasure my nephews, and I would not dream of depriving you from such a relationship with my own son—nor he from all you can teach him. I can only hope that he can keep up with such clever boys as Maitimo and Makalaurë."

Fëanáro's one weakness was his sons, and he beamed. "They shall be the best of friends," he assured Ñolofinwë. "No matter what."

"And us, brother?" Ñolofinwë asked after a pause. "Are we to put our differences behind us, for the sake of our children?"

The grin slipped from Fëanáro's face. "Do not think that because I love you, that requires I _like_ you, Nolofinwë," he warned. "It will take more than shallow words to garner you my full respect."

Ñolofinwë bit back a sigh. Of course it would be this way; Fëanáro was too stubborn for his own good, and even if he would put aside their rivalry for the sake of their children, it did not absolve Ñolofinwë from the crime of being Indis' son.

"I must admit that my hatred for you is as strong as my love," Ñolofinwë replied, raising an eyebrow. "But I do wish you to know that such feelings are constantly at war within me, and were it not for my impeccable composure, I would—"

He did not get to finish the sentence as Fëanáro groaned and pulled him into an embrace. "I hate you, too," he hissed into Ñolofinwë's ear, "much more than I love you, but love you I do, despite my better judgement."

Ñolofinwë clung to his brother, soaking in this uncharacteristic affection as if it would make up for decades of animosity.

"I love you, too, Fëanáro," he whispered, and in that moment, he looked to their future together with a hope he had never held before.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and please comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](http://arofili.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Of Robes and Feasts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29573214) by [sacredORDINARYdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sacredORDINARYdays/pseuds/sacredORDINARYdays)




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